


He Moves Like A Knife

by SeriousMoonlight



Category: Shadowrun: Hong Kong
Genre: Cigarettes, Humiliation, I'm Sorry, Other, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Robot Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7051618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeriousMoonlight/pseuds/SeriousMoonlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>"He <i>wants</i> to hunt, to dominate, to bathe himself in blood. Reproduction would also be a drive if such a thing were possible."</p>
</blockquote><p>Filthy robot sex between Racter/Koschei/the protagonist of Shadowrun: Hong Kong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Moves Like A Knife

**Author's Note:**

> Second person POV as someone with a vag, but not gendered. It's rough but all consensual. I'm sorry to my friends and family

Drones shouldn't be able to look at people that way.

Koschei isn't like any other combat drone you've seen, certainly, but you thought it was just that he -- it -- was more technologically advanced than other units. Or maybe that Racter's closeness with it was making you project more of a personality onto it. Pretty much every rigger you've known names their drones, invents some little quirk about them, whatever. But none of this accounts for the way it looks at you.

You fucked up on your last run - let one of the Lone Star officers get too close to you, and you've always been better in a fight at a distance. A big, hulking ork, she caught you in the stomach with a nightstick and you went down almost instantly, scrabbling for your pistol. 

Koschei got there first.

The circular saw blade attachments for its arms always seemed a little needlessly gruesome to you, regardless of how effective they were for hand to hand combat. That was before seeing it work up close. Or rather, feeling it. The arc of blood spattered across your face, the rotating blades flinging it away, and the officer died before she could even scream, which seemed like an awful sort of blessing.

And then Koschei turned toward you. Four metal legs standing over you, red sights focused on your face, staring so intently it sent a shiver down your spine. An expression in the faceless, alien metal, even though that was impossible.

_Hunger,_ you thought, and watched yourself swallow hard in the reflection on Koschei's chassis.

Before you even had time to register what was happening, a hand signal from Racter saw the drone scuttling back to his side while Duncan gave you a hand up. Were you imagining that look in its eyes?

Were you imagining the little smile at the edges of Racter's mouth, too?

### 

You've always liked your talks with Racter, down in the engine room of the abandoned ship you call home. If there's anyone on the team you know you don't have to posture in front of, it's him. You like how the loud whirring of the engines makes you have to stand closer together to hear each other speak, the way his cigarette smoke fills your lungs, clings to your jacket after you leave. Sometimes you feel like you can barely keep up with him during your conversations, but you've been getting better at it. He tells you as much once in a while, and receiving words of praise from him puts a wonderful knot in your stomach.

What you're unsure if you like is the way Koschei always watches you - from under Racter's work table, or from a corner of the room, or right at his side. It makes you squirm.

"Friend," he greets, the cigarette in his lips tilting upwards as he flashes his lopsided grin. "Feeling any better after earlier? That was quite a hit you took." His voice is low, deep, rough. He lets his Russian accent get thicker when he talks with you, which makes you feel good for reasons you can't quite articulate.

"Just sore. Nasty bruise. She missed my ribs - nothing's broken," you say. Your eyes flick down to Koschei. The drone stares back. "Thanks for covering my ass."

Racter shakes his head, taking a seat on the stool in front of his work bench. He runs a leather-gloved hand along the back of Koschei's chassis. "Ah, Koschei did all the work, not me."

You follow, and sit in your usual spot - a discarded metal box up against the nearby wall. "But you -- you're the one controlling him. So you're the one to thank, right?"

Racter pauses, lets cigarette smoke roll out through his parted lips. "Surely you've noticed," he says, the engine fans still clanking, "that Koschei here is far more advanced than the average combat drone, yes?"

You nod, swallow, look back down at the metal creature beneath the desk. It almost seems agitated, like it could start pacing at any second. Which should be impossible, but you have a sinking feeling you're about to find out that it isn't.

### 

You find out that it isn't.

Racter is a little more fucked up than you thought, and you feel like you're a little more similar to him than you're entirely comfortable with. He put part of his mind in a drone, found a way to place his id directly into Koschei, which explains why you've never seen him lose his cool. He experimented on his own brain, has a metal body below the waist, plays around with making himself feel sensations artificially. It's a lot to take in.

But over the next few days, you keep coming back to one thing he said.

"Koschei wants to hunt, to dominate, to bathe himself in blood." He'd turned his head to look right at you. "Reproduction would also be a drive, if such a thing were possible."

You know Racter didn't miss how your legs pressed together and your cheeks heated up. How you excused yourself only a few minutes later, went upstairs to your room with your clit throbbing. You'd like to hope he didn't know what followed - getting yourself off with one hand and pressing your cigarette-scented jacket against your face with the other. But you can never be sure with him.

You don't bring it up, but now you know Koschei looks at you with a hunger. Does it -- does _he_ \-- want to kill you or fuck you? Both?

There's one you're hoping for as you shut the door to the engine room behind you with sweaty, trembling hands.

"Ah, it's later than usual for you to come visit, friend," Racter says, turning on the stool to face you. "Koschei and I have missed you over the past few days."

"Sorry, I--" You don't know how to finish the sentence. You wanted to say "I didn't mean to go so long", but you did. You've been avoiding him. Nerves, fear, excitement.

"Relax. You'll get Koschei agitated." There's a very deliberate and predatory sort of grin on his face as he says it, one that shoots sparks through your brain and right between your legs. The quick little exhale you make has Koschei looking at you again. That same way, with his metal limbs switching and clicking on the ship's floor ever so slightly.

You stand there for a minute, looking at Racter as he sits and stares back. Taking in the silvery hair, the strong jaw, the thick lips.

Like you're in a trance, you lean to kiss him, and suddenly you're slammed against the floor, vision exploding as Koschei hovers over you again.

"Sudden movements," Racter chides gently, as if his drone hasn't just knocked all the air from your lungs. You stare up at the ceiling, at Koschei's red eyes, and wheeze, because it's all you can do. You can hear Racter's boots on the metal floor as he stands up.

The dangerous grin hasn't left his face as he looks down at you. "You _want_ this?" he says, with a disbelieving half-laugh, and you nod breathlessly. He doesn't say anything for a moment, looking you head to toe as if appraising you, and then sits back down in his stool, Koschei following at his side.

"Pants off," he says, and you're on your knees scrambling to comply as if he'll change his mind in the next few seconds. You barely have time to scrape your pants and underwear down off your hips before Racter grabs a handful of hair, pulling you towards him so you're on all fours. He's still smiling.

Something -- Koschei -- presses against you from behind, cold, smooth metal against your wet cunt. It -- he -- doesn't wait any more than that. A thick mechanical limb slides inside you and Racter stifles your cry with a gloved hand. It's so much at once and it's been so long and it's so cold that you feel tears instantly welling up in your eyes, which only gets your pussy wetter, because holy fuck, this is so much hotter than you imagined it would be.

"You've been thinking about this for days, haven't you?" Racter asks, already knowing your answer. You nod desperately against his hand anyway. "Getting fucked right here on the floor." His voice sounds so rough and it makes you tighten around Koschei's metal inside you, and Racter looks pretty fucking pleased with himself.

Koschei starts moving inside you _hard_. There's no finesse or care or tenderness, just the intensity of a hungry machine pistoning in and out of your cunt. And Racter's sitting there all the while, cigarette in one hand and now your throat in the other. He exhales smoke in your open, panting mouth and you'd thank him if you had the breath to.

"Ah, hear that?" he asks, and it's hard to tell what he means at first. The engine fans are (hopefully) loud enough to disguise any of your moans and cries to anyone outside the room, and Koschei's mechanical limb is whirring and Racter's breathing is heavy -- and then you notice it and gasp. "Right. Even with all this, I can still hear how wet you are." 

He playfully shakes his head, and it's so fucked up that he gets to be this composed while you're a trembling mess. His hand tightens on your throat, the leather glove squeaking. Koschei hasn't stopped, a pace almost measured perfectly to frustrate you -- hell, that's probably exactly what it is. Fast, hard, but somehow not enough. You whimper.

"More?" Racter questions. You nod. He grins, shakes his head again, takes a drag of his cigarette and blows more smoke in your face. "You're done when we're done."

His brain cyberware lets him simulate sensation - is he using it on himself now? Can he make himself feel like he's the one inside you, like he's slamming his hips against you from behind? Maybe you can ask later, if you remember how to speak after this.

"Please," you finally beg, when it's too much to bear - when your clit throbs and aches so hard it hurts and you're so close and he won't let you over the edge. "Please. Fuck. _Something_ \-- I need --" you spit out, and then Koschei's speed increases and Racter's shoving your head down against the filthy engine room floor, your cheek pressed against the metal grating hard enough to leave a mark.

That's enough, and the noise that wrenches itself from you is something between a scream and a moan, one that you pray the ship's engine disguises from the rest of the boat's inhabitants. You come hard, hips rocking back and forth as Koschei's metal stays inside you, riding out the last of your orgasm. When the drone finally pulls out, you feel boneless, somehow rolling onto your back and trying weakly to pull your underwear back up.

Racter takes one glove off, swipes a finger against Koschei's glistening metal limb, puts it in his mouth. Not even done with the intent to turn you on - it's like you might as well not be there, and that makes it so much hotter. The two of you make eye contact.

"Can we do that again sometime," you gasp.

Racter actually honest to god laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> I love Shadowrun: Hong Kong and Racter is so hot and the Perturbator song I named this after is very good please go listen to it


End file.
